FW: 1941 Boxing Day
by Wolseley37
Summary: An unexpected visitor Christmas Eve changes Foyle's otherwise quiet holiday plans, and perhaps his future as well.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** FW 1941: Boxing Day  
**Characters:** Foyle & Barbara Hicks  
**Disclaimer:** The characters in [i]Foyle's War[/i] were created by Anthony Horowitz. Just borrowing them. No infringement intended.

For non-Commonwealth readers, Boxing Day is the day after Christmas, December 26th, and is a public or bank holiday. The origin is that servants or tradesmen would receive a present or 'Christmas Box' from their masters or employers on that day.

In 1941 Christmas Eve was a Wednesday.

A/N: I began writing this in November 2006 & posted it on the 'Nothing Fancy' _Foyle's War_ Discussion board in November and December of 2006.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Christopher Foyle lowered himself carefully into his chair by the hearth, took a large swallow of whisky from his glass, and surveyed the shambles of the usually tidy sitting room. Cushions lay scattered over the carpet, a lamp was knocked on its side on the floor, his waistcoat hung over the back of the sofa; he noted the location of a cuff-link under the opposite chair, and his wristwatch strap protruding from the back edge of its seat. God knew where the other cuff-link had got to. He frowned to himself in disbelief, scratched his head, and slowly broke into a grin.

He was, himself, in a similarly uncharacteristic state of disarray – braces slack under hanging shirt-tails, cuffs and collar open. Taking another swallow of _The Glenlivet_ – a full bottle, still with its red ribbon and bow attached, stood on the wireless cabinet – his eye lit upon the photo frame overturned on the table at his elbow. He chewed his lip a moment, reached a hand out towards it, and paused: not yet.

_'What the eye doesn't see the heart won't grieve over.'_

It had been one of her pet sayings, purposely ironic for a police detective's wife, and it must stand them in good stead now.

Decisively he set down his glass and rose to begin to put things to rights. He repaired his own habiliments first, then replaced the cushions on the sofa, stood the lamp on its base (not damaged, apparently, thank god; Andrew would have noticed that), retrieved the single cuff-link and his watch and then spied the other link in the base of the potted plant in the corner. He dropped these articles onto the chair's side table, stood with his hands deep in his trouser pockets and took another practiced sweep of the room. Satisfied that the evidence had been erased, he returned to his seat, fitted on his cuff-links, and took up the photograph of his late wife. Her placid, gentle eyes gazed at him uncritically; he smiled a wry, apologetic smile and set the frame upright on the table.

He sipped at his drink. The whisky was excellent and rather welcome just at the moment. He hadn't had any on hand for two months, since he'd shared the dregs of his last bottle on his son's leave; he'd felt he couldn't justify the expense, after the price had shot up again, and had made do with tea in the evening.

While he had never liked the idea of drinking alone, since Andrew had gone – first to Oxford and then into war service – and what with his general dissatisfaction with his work and… It had become one of his few pleasures and he restricted himself to an ounce.

But tonight, well, a new bottle and an absolutely unprecedented set of circumstances to sort out and put into some logical order in his mind.

He shook his head wonderingly:_ no._

_Logic had had nothing to do with it._

It had only been forty-eight hours and now it seemed his life was to be considerably altered – no, changed decidedly for the better… Forty-eight hours since he had opened the door to an unexpected knock and been caught quite off-guard.

* * *

Christmas Eve, the season's greetings and the obligatory smiles and handshakes to all and sundry at the station; Milner had left early with Miss Ashford to go to her family; he had also left early, for Sam's sake more than his own, and she had driven him to his door and tried one last time to persuade him to come with her to Lyminster for the holiday.

"But, _Christmas_, sir…!"

When he'd reminded her, again, that Andrew would be home on leave on Boxing Day, she'd invited him as well, bless her persevering heart. He was quite sure he'd seen a sympathetic tear in her eye as he'd climbed out of the Wolseley, which had been no help to him at all, really; her reliable stiff-upper-lip having deserted her on this occasion, apparently. Thank god they'd exchanged parcels earlier in the day.

His strong desire to quickly end the discomfort and awkwardness of that farewell had not mitigated the inevitable feeling of loneliness that descended on him like a cold draught as soon as he'd shut the door. His house was dim, silent and empty.

In the brief winter daylight he couldn't even open the blackout curtain – it was dark in the morning when he departed for work and dark when he returned.

He switched on the hall light, hung up his woollen scarf, hat and coat, beaded with shining wet droplets from the light snow that had just begun to fall, and laid his gloves on the table; he carried Sam's little parcel into the sitting room and set it under the small ornamental tree on the wireless cabinet with the collection of other small parcels that had arrived by post or otherwise come into his possession over the past weeks. A few for him, more than a few for Andrew. He was glad he'd done the tree, though he'd put very little spirit into the decorating of it – Andrew would like it and it seemed to show, somehow, that he hadn't degenerated into a completely misanthropic hermit.

Now the long evening lay ahead of him and he knew he'd best get busy and keep busy or he'd not be fit company when Andrew did come the day after tomorrow. He lit the fire, put the wireless on low for its companionable murmur of music and news, set his box of fly-tying gear ready on the dining table – he had his book to read later – and then went upstairs, switching off the hall light as he passed.

He hung his suit jacket in the wardrobe and walked into the bathroom to wash the day's grime away. He had intended merely a quick splash at the basin; instead he decided to indulge in a hot bath – it would pass a half-hour or so and he was feeling a bit stiff and chapped – his office was bloody cold these days owing to the coal rationing.

Afterwards he felt much better and was just getting a fresh if well-worn shirt on when he thought he heard a metallic rattle at the front door.

He listened and then shook his head – couldn't be; Andrew was definite he couldn't get home for Christmas. Foyle hauled up his braces and selected a warm knitted waistcoat to button over the soft, comfortable shirt; he turned up the sleeves, and pushed his feet into his slippers. He was finishing towelling off his damp hair when he heard the knock. Definitely a knock.

All the way down the stairs he was frowning in irritation, and, after switching on the light, had to take a moment to compose his features into a neutral expression before opening the door. At first he saw no one there, but when he looked further out beyond the foot of the steps he saw a shadowy figure just walking away, following the inadequate light of a masked torch directed at the sloping pavement. A woman's figure, well-bundled up against the weather, but unmistakably a woman. He hesitated to call out but opened the door wider, then she glanced back over her shoulder, saw the light spilling out and him standing there in near silhouette, and halted.

Unlike himself, she had not had a moment to arrange her expression, and her features at that instant, illuminated in contrast to the surrounding gloom, revealed her feelings clearly: she was irritated, just as she'd been the first time he'd laid eyes upon her. And, he noted with a lift in his heart and a quickening pulse, just as attractive. She was also frustrated and disappointed, he observed. Though the twinge of disappointment left her eyes instantly she was apparently unable to banish the irritation as readily. She turned in place and glared up at him, perhaps to cover a slight embarrassment at being caught unprepared. Her first words were almost an accusation.

"Your house is in complete darkness!"

Foyle leaned out to look exaggeratedly up and down the pitch black street.

"Well, it's the law."

She stared as though he were being deliberately obtuse, which, of course, he was.

"I looked through the post flap – there was no lamp on at all."

"Then… I admire your persistence." he answered pleasantly, though he really felt he shouldn't have to defend his actions within the privacy of his own house.

"Well, I could hear the wireless…" she said to justify her actions.

He waited, thinking he'd give her an opportunity to start again.

"Why didn't you answer? I've been knocking for–."

This wasn't going well, whatever it was. He scratched his temple and interrupted,

"Look, _er_, would you care to come in? We can continue this just as well indoors, and… _I_ won't get nicked for breaking the blackout."

She seemed to see the reason in his suggestion, and gave a conciliatory if wry smile at his use of the word 'nicked.' As she made her way into the brighter light at the foot of the steps he saw that she carried some shopping as well as a travel case and so, despite being shod only in his slippers, he went down to help her: the snow was beginning to cover the ground and the pavement was treacherous. As he put out his hand to take her travel case, she slid, lost her footing and nearly went backwards. She let out a startled cry and the torch went flying, but he caught her and steadied her.

"Whoa... You all right?"

Now at close range, scanning her face with mild concern, he saw the snow glistening on her lashes and blonde curls, her green-flecked blue eyes wide from the little fright and her high cheeks rosy from the cold, and confirmed to himself that she was, indeed, nearly the loveliest woman he'd ever seen. There had only been one lovelier.

"Oh, god, thanks; it would've been a disaster if I'd dropped this!" She seemed to indicate the shopping. He smiled and stooped to retrieve her torch.

"Well, let's get you inside, then."

As he carried her bag and guided her up the steps with a hand under her elbow he was keenly aware that they had not properly begun with each other, not gone through the usual, polite enquiries, and yet – what on earth was she doing here at his house? He was undeniably delighted to see her, but… he couldn't entirely put aside his moral compunction at the idea of an unescorted, unmarried woman, to whom he was not related, alone in the house with him, for however brief a visit. And then there was the shopping and her travel bag…

He ushered her mutely into the passage, shut the door and set down her case; she placed the net bag of parcels on the hall table, removed her beret and unfastened her coat. He took the articles from her, silently, a sense of awkwardness growing between them.

Finally he turned to her,

"_Em_, Mrs. Hicks; how are you?"

"Much better _now_ – the train was delayed, there wasn't a taxi to be had at the station, and the bus was nowhere to be found–." She pretended to be distracted with smoothing her dress and running her fingers through her hair,

"I walked to an hotel first but they hadn't a vacant room, and so I've had to foot it all the way up this damned hill of yours with–. Well, it doesn't matter; I'm here." She finished on an almost breezy note.

"Y-yes. So you are."

He smiled, vainly trying to keep an air of puzzlement out of his manner. She smiled back a moment, then casually placing a hand on his sleeve for balance, bent to remove her shoes.

"Those have got wet – I seem to be standing on two blocks of ice!" She said with a little nervous laugh.

"Oh, forgive me; do come in – s-sit by the fire."

Gesturing her through, switching on a lamp, he marvelled at his self-restraint: he, who made his living and spent his days asking questions, winkeling out the what, when and why of everyone's actions, followed her in, seated her in Andrew's chair at the hearth, moved his own chair closer and… didn't ask. Somehow he didn't want to risk breaking whatever charm or spell or inexplicable whim had brought her to his door.

He remained standing, his hands on the chair back; she smiled uncertainly up at him, and said with rather more feeling than was warranted between slight acquaintances,

"It's _good_ to see you."

"…And you, Mrs. Hicks."

"Please, call me Barbara."

Foyle tested the name,

"Barbara."

He came round to sit in his chair, leaned forward with hands clasped, elbows resting on his knees, and offered,

"Christopher."

Her reaction to that small invitation was subtle but revelatory – something inside her broke open, like a green shoot cracking through late ice – he saw it in her eyes and in a slight quiver of her mouth as she repeated,

"Christopher."

She covered her emotion with a torrent of words,

"You must be wondering why I'm here! You see, I had no word on the length of my leave until just the other day and, when I was told to take the week off I thought I'd get away somewhere – I've always been very fond of the South Downs and, since I had nowhere I had to be I thought, why not Hastings…"

He thought,_ 'Of course, she has no family; but surely…?'_

Out loud he said,

"Oh, you've a week's holiday; that's very good."

"Yes, I've been working steadily with very little time off for ages– well, since April, when I left this area, in fact, and– don't pass this on, but we're running short of suitable trees in the south. I'll probably be moved north in the New Year, and, _er_..."

She left the thought unfinished.

"You're still pole-selecting, then?"

"Oh, yes." At his question her features transformed with a smile that lit her eyes,

"And you're still… detecting?"

He smiled slightly and scratched the side of his head again,

"Yes. Can't seem to get out of it."

"Oh? You'd prefer to be doing something else?"

"Well, something more vital to the war effort, you know. I've… made dozens of requests for transfer, called in favours, even bothered well-connected relatives, but, _er_– just seem to have made a nuisance of myself, really."

As he finished Foyle wondered at himself for revealing so much, but then, she had, in a way, offered confidential information first – the news about her move to the north. It felt as if they were trading state secrets.

She looked at him earnestly,

"I can understand your frustration, yet, you're doing important work, Christopher; I've seen that; they'd be sorry to lose you. The people who work under you, Mr. Milner and Miss Stewart, they– well, it was obvious to me they greatly respect and admire you."

He smiled uncomfortably and thought of a diversion,

"Can I offer you something, Barbara? Tea? Or… something stronger?"

"Well," she glanced at the clock on the mantel, "You haven't eaten, Christopher, have you?"

"_Er_, no; no."

"Good, because I've brought a few things; I thought we might, _em_… I-I'm always being fed very well at one billet or another and, frankly, I'm paid very well, too. Anyway, I'd managed to save up rather a lot of ration coupons and, though there's not much in the shops, I have found a few choice items. All quite legal, I assure you."

As she talked she had risen and gone into the hall to retrieve the bag of shopping. Foyle stood politely and watched her and wrestled inwardly with his uneasiness with the circumstances. Clearly her appearance here was no whim, but the result of deliberate, if hasty, planning. Over the years he'd encountered women, very nice women, too, who had, in varying ways, set their cap at him, yet, somehow, he had never been interested.

He could not deny his interest now. It was rather a new feeling for him. And, running his fingers along his jaw, he rather wished he'd shaved…

"That is– I'm sorry– unless you had other plans?"

Holding the parcel in her arms, she hesitated in the doorway.

Foyle absently thrust a hand into his trouser pocket and then drew it out again.

"Oh, _er_, no; I haven't any… other plans."

He felt odd saying that, winced and ducked to scratch the back of his head.

"Good. The kitchen's this way, yes?" She smiled and charmingly tilted her head to the right.

"...Allow me."

Foyle led the way through, flicked the lightswitch and looked on from the doorway as she unpacked smaller parcels at the table. He chewed his lip and considered that, aside from his natural appreciation of her physical attractions, he was more intrigued by her character. When he'd encountered her last spring, the sarcasm she'd inflicted on him had been so unexpected and, he felt, so unwarranted, that he had really wanted to know what was behind it. Now he understood that she had suffered through a bad marriage and the recent loss of her only child to the war; yet she had not only endured but had thrown herself into war work. He was further intrigued by her choice of occupation – assuming she had been given a choice – not moiling in a crowded factory or labouring on the land, instead she had taken on a remarkably independent, responsible kind of work requiring special knowledge, intelligence and self-direction. He was, indeed, interested, and now… here she was… apparently interested in him.

Still he could not bring himself to ask her any pertinent questions, but then, the longer he _delayed_ asking the less need there was _to_ ask, it seemed…

He noticed that she had paused in unwrapping the parcels, her head bowed. He came forward and hovered beside her,

"Can I help? What do you need?"

"Just, _er_, this…"

She turned to him and stood very close and he noted, with some disquiet, that she was trembling. She put her hands on his shoulders, then around his back and waited for him to embrace her, which… he did. The sensation of her warmth, the living motion of her breathing within his arms and against his chest was intoxicating. She raised her head to bring her lips close to his mouth and waited for him to kiss her, which, after a slight hesitation, and to his astonishment and unanticipated pleasure, he also did.

"There," she murmured, tasting him on her lower lip, and giving a little half-shrug, "now it won't be quite so… awkward… to share a meal together, will it?"

A fleeting smile crossed his features, but he was rather stunned by these sudden developments.

Resting her cheek on his shoulder, she confessed,

"Christopher. I've thought about you every day since I left."

Foyle understood he was expected to make some sort of reply.

"I… thought I'd never see you again, after reading your note, so I've tried not to…"

"And managed quite well, no doubt?"

"No, not very well." As he spoke the words he realised they were true.

"_Have_ you thought of me, Christopher?"

She lifted her eyes to search his face. He took in a breath before meeting her gaze.

"Oh, yes." His voice had come out in a rather lower register than he'd expected.

Though she smiled, he fancied he saw a tremor of her bottom lip as she laid her head on his shoulder again. He allowed his fingers to stray though the soft curls of her hair.

"I was beastly to you."

He smiled to himself,

"Only at first; but then… you couldn't resist the Foyle charm."

He felt her shaking and happily realised that she was laughing.

"Works every time, I suppose?"

"Well… it's a reserved, tactical weapon, you know. Only resorted to in dire circumstances."

"Well, it was certainly called for in my case."

"It seemed to be, yes; but, _er_, as I say, it's tactical – strictly for significant targets. It's not been used often."

She sighed,

"I know; for completely opposite reasons, it seems we'd both been spoiled for anyone else, anyone since."

Foyle inhaled deeply and she drew back with a pained look.

"I'm sorry, that was presumptuous of me."

She began to pull away but he caressed the back of her neck,

"_I_… think…" His voice lifted towards the interrogative, "we need to take time to get to know each other, _hmm_?"

"_Time_… it's so difficult now. I expect to be moved on…"

"Then, shall we make a start?"

"Yes, I'd like that very much."

She turned her face up to him and her eyes closed in blissful anticipation. Foyle felt a sudden disconcerting mix of alarm, desire and triumph; he took her chin between his thumb and index finger, and she opened her eyes in surprise.

Looking intently into her face, he asked,

"Shall we _share_ the cooking duties, or are you the sort who rules the kitchen in splendid isolation?"

With an embarrassed chuckle she turned to the table,

"I've done so little cooking these past few years that… I hardly remember."

"Well, I've done a lot, though it's been nothing to boast of, so perhaps if we both contribute…" He picked up a small bunch of hothouse carrots, admiring their freshness,

"What would you like done with these?"

tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

An hour later they were lingering in the dining room (having removed his fly-tying gear to the sideboard) over the remains of the very respectable meal they had cobbled together from her provisions and what he had on hand, and enjoying the wine she had brought – a rare vintage obtained, through dedicated haggling, from a private cellar.

She amused him with the story of her negotiations with the elderly connoisseur as they tidied things away; however when they moved to the sitting room to finish their wine, the unspoken question of her accommodation clouded the atmosphere. Foyle unobtrusively drummed his fingers on his leg and then met her eyes frankly,

"Did… you want me to ring the other hotels?"

She bit her bottom lip worriedly and looked directly at him,

"They did call around for me at the Arms, but there was nothing available, I'm afraid."

"I'm not surprised, this time of year."

"If I'd known earlier the length of my leave–."

"Couldn't be helped."

"They thought they might have something on Boxing Day."

Foyle nodded and mulled over this information for a moment.

"I should perhaps mention that my son will be home on leave; I expect him Friday."

"Boxing Day. Ah."

"But I see no reason why you couldn't have his room until then. You're very welcome to it. I've billeted others in the past – I've even billeted my driver, when her landlady's house was bombed."

"Miss Stewart? And no scandal, Christopher?"

"Not that ever reached my ears. We were very discreet."

She smiled and attempted an impersonation of the younger woman,

"Jolly decent of you, sir!"

He gave a small smile.

"Well, I can't very well send you out into a snowfall on Christmas Eve, when there's no room at the inn."

His satisfaction at his little witticism was short-lived as an unexpected change passed over her features, and Foyle was taken aback at the glimpse of dull, enduring pain in her eyes. She recovered and brightened, but he couldn't let it go unremarked. He leaned forward in his chair.

"Barbara? What were you thinking of?"

She made a little dismissive wave,

"No, no; it's in the past. I don't want to spoil… the present. Speaking of which–,"

She rose abruptly and went to admire the little tree standing on the wireless cabinet. "This is sweet."

Foyle frowned, crossed the room to take her hand, and said quietly,

"You can't expect me to ignore that, Barbara. We… agreed to make a start."

"And, being a detective, you won't be content with just knowing my favourite colour, or flower, or how I take my tea…?

"N-no."

Shifting uneasily, she bowed her head to examine the lines on the palm of his hand,

"I've confided in no one, never attempted to confide in anyone… ever since my father told me I'd made my bed and would have to lie in it."

"Is it too painful to speak of?"

She looked sadly to one side,

"It's… the humiliation of it, more than the cruelty. The cruelty seemed to have nothing to do with me, but – he had a very, very clever way of finding out my little vanities and ridiculing me for them."

He put his arm around her, walked to the sofa and sat down with her; he waited until she met his eyes, and said very gently,

"Barbara, I think you should tell me about that Christmas Eve."

She looked into his eyes for a long moment, found a kind sympathy she was willing to trust, then took a deep breath and spoke on the exhalation,

"Oh, I came to dread Christmas, birthdays; almost any holiday was an excuse to drink to excess, and that brought on some tirade or other that would build and build to an explosive outburst…"

Now she focussed intently on her fingers, turning and twisting round themselves in her lap; her voice becoming very quiet,

"I found that, if he drank _enough_, he became incapable of pursuing me out of the house, so… if I timed it just right, I could get away before the shouting escalated to a beating…"

"Where did you go?"

"I just walked… I'd stay away until I was sure he'd passed out, and then I'd… get back into the house somehow."

"He'd lock you out of the house?"

Her answer came as a whisper,

"Sometimes."

Foyle lowered his eyes briefly, then prompted,

"Go on."

"By our third Christmas the pattern was well-established; he could go weeks, months without a drink, things would be all right, almost normal, and then something would come up to trigger another bout – some work problem, or a holiday to 'celebrate.' ...But that was a bad winter – bitterly cold, with heavy snow, and I…" she shook her head in regret,

"I'd tried all day to distract him, tease him, cajole him, anything to slow down the drinking – perhaps I should have tried the opposite – but he knew what I was doing, and he knew why."

She dashed away the tears that spilt down her cheek.

"So he threw me out of the house. He said, 'If you're so bloody fond of night walking; you'd best get on with it.' I… pleaded with him, but in the end he hurled my boots and coat at me and pushed me out the door. I had to keep walking to try to stay warm; I walked for hours, though I didn't go very far from the house. It was hard. I was seven months pregnant."

As a policeman, Foyle was used to hearing disturbing, disheartening testimony of the inhumanities suffered by victims, seen by witnesses and perpetrated by suspects. In his early years he'd wondered why the victims of such intimate violence hadn't done more to help themselves, why they hadn't rallied friends and family to come to their defense, but as he'd gained experience he'd developed a deeper understanding of the intertwined pressures of dependence, security, love and shame, and the inadequacies of the law.

But this was not one of his cases, to be followed through the court, filed away and put out of his mind.

He shifted closer to her, asking very carefully,

"There was no one you could turn to, nowhere to go?"

She shook her head,

"We were isolated, socially and… geographically. He'd seen to that – no nearby neighbours, no telephone. He didn't encourage visitors. No one knew how bad it could be – You see, he had a completely different public manner; he could be so charming – affable; that was the man I thought I had married. He was well-liked at work. He had friends, but I'd lost all of mine…"

Slowly another memory suffused her face with a warm glow,

"But then I had my beautiful son, and he was my whole life."

She suddenly turned to him with an earnest look, as if she needed to assure him on this point,

"My husband loved his son, he never thought of harming _him_."

Foyle held her hand, waited and asked,

"Barbara, what happened to your husband?"

She took in a long shuddering breath, and sat up straight,

"An accident. He was an engineer; he was overseeing the installation of heavy machinery in a factory; when the works were started up something exploded and he was killed. Very quick and painless, I was told. They assured me it hadn't been due to any mistake on his part. I was given a small widow's and orphan's pension, and… I began to live again. Andrew was only four at the time; he doesn't – didn't – remember his father."

Foyle dragged his fingers across his brow,

"Your son was Andrew? That's… my son's name."

She looked into his eyes with an expression of infinite sadness,

"Oh…"

He put his arms around her and they held onto each other for a long time; she seemed exhausted from the effort of talking, of disclosing this part of her story to him; Foyle murmured words of comfort,

"You got through it, Barbara; it's made you a very strong person…"

And then he rose, inspired by a new idea, and offered her his hand,

"Will you come with me – stand at the door with me a moment?"

She accepted his hand with a question in her eyes, and went with him; he opened the door onto the hushed, cold December night, stood at her back and enveloped her in the gentle strength and warmth of his arms. As they looked out together at the snow falling across the light in pretty, dancing flakes, landing silently as a blessing on the houses and transforming the drab, dark world into a pristine white, he kissed her cheek and spoke softly by her ear,

"Let_ this_ be your Christmas Eve memory from now on: our first Christmas together."

He was, again, surprised by his own words, but somehow, without having formed a definite view of the future, he felt he wanted them to be true. She wept quietly for a time to release some of the pain of her past, and then turned within his embrace, her eyes brimming with new hope. He held her and gently pushed the door closed.

As it happened, Andrew's bedroom was unoccupied that night, and so was Foyle's. Though he had carried her travel case upstairs and seen that everything was suitably tidy for his guest, they had, instead, sat up very late, sharing a little more wine. Foyle gradually became aware that Barbara was, consciously or not, monitoring his consumption, but he felt that this was not the right time to open that discussion – she would see and satisfy herself on that point.

They talked quietly by the fire, her head resting comfortably against him, and eventually drifted off into sleep together on the sofa.

* * *

Foyle woke first; he studied with tender regard his guest's features in repose, and smiled at the distant, joyful peal of church bells. Carefully he disentangled himself from her arms, substituting a pillow under her head where his shoulder had been; he built up the fire, covered her with a soft tartan blanket, and went upstairs to wash, shave and change his clothes. In the bedroom he donned one of his newer shirts, spent a full minute choosing a necktie, buttoned his waistcoat and fastened links on his shirt cuffs.

He was making tea in the kitchen when he heard her footsteps overhead and then the bathroom door close quietly. Bread and eggs were waiting to be respectively toasted and poached, when the telephone rang.

"Foyle here."

_"Happy Christmas, sir!"_

"Oh, yes, thanks; happy Christmas, Sam. You got home all right, then?"

_"Tickety-boo, sir. The snow came down heavy overnight, though. How is it there?"_

She was talking rather loudly, though the line was perfectly clear, perhaps to make up for the distance between them.

"Er, just a light dusting, far as I know – haven't opened the blackout curtain, yet."

_"Oh, I see."_ Her voice took on that young mother-hennish quality that half-irritated, half-amused him,

_"Are you all right, sir? Have you heard from Andrew?"_

"No, don't expect to; he'll just turn up when he can. Look, I'm fine, Sam, in fact…" He didn't know what prompted him to divulge it,

"…a friend has just dropped in_ (that was a white lie, and she might be clever enough to spot his inconsistency about not yet seeing the snow this morning)._

"Yes, it was a nice surprise.

"No, it's no one you know_ (that made two lies on Christmas morning – was there some special penance for that?)."_

"Just about to have breakfast _(he probably shouldn't have said that, at all)._"

Foyle winced and scratched the side of his head distractedly.

_"Well, that's very nice, sir. I hope you'll have a nice visit. You will go to church, won't you, sir? It's always so nice to hear the choir on Christmas morning."_

"Y-yes, yes, expect I will _(he hoped that would not turn out to be another lie)_. Thanks for calling, Sam; do give my best wishes to your mother and father."

He rang off with a sense of relief, her 'nice, nice, nice' ringing in his ears, and was fixing himself a cup of tea when Barbara appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking charming in a dress he hadn't seen before – but then he'd only seen two of her dresses before, and the first was the one she had cleverly fashioned out of parachute silk, he recalled. He set down his untasted cup and reached out a hand to her,

"Good morning! Find everything you needed?"

She came into his arms and kissed him full on the mouth, to his surprise.

"I have now… Happy Christmas, darling."

Foyle raised his eyebrows,

"_Er_, happy Christmas. _Um_, 'darling' already…? Haven't even made you breakfast yet– and it's the one meal I _can_ do that Andrew doesn't complain about."

"Well, it wasn't your culinary skills that prompted me to come here, you know."

"No?" He felt himself smiling foolishly, but then the telephone rang again.

"Damn. Excuse me; I'll just, _er_… Help yourself to tea – how _do_ you take it, by the way?" he asked with a grin over his shoulder.

She smiled back,

"Just milk; no sugar."

This time it was his sister-in-law, Mrs. Howard, in London, and her voice, too, conveyed a sympathetic concern and forced delight as to Andrew's imminent arrival to cheer his lonely holiday. Again he found himself giving out a confidence he began to feel was not his to mention.

"Yes, just dropped in this morning. No, it's no one you know. _Er_, – through work – a murder case, actually. Nooo, my friend didn't _commit_ the murder; very amusing, Alice. Oh, just pass on my–. Don't have to put him on–. Hullo, Charles. Thanks; and the same to you…"

Foyle rolled his eyes heavenward and turned to see Barbara bringing him his tea. She set it by the phone, kissed his cheek and went back into the kitchen. Half-attending to the voice of his brother-in-law, he sipped his tea and monitored the sounds of cooking. When he was finally able to ring off, he found breakfast ready on the table.

"Sorry; they're worried I might be lonely." He grinned at her meaningfully and picked up his knife and fork.

"Why didn't they just invite you? Oh – they did, didn't they?"

"Y-yes, but Andrew prefers to come home, and I can't bear travelling, the train service being what it is these days, _er_, as you very well know, and… I would have missed… you."

"But you didn't know I was coming."

"N-no, so it's a very good thing I didn't go."

"Oh, that's quite logical." She hid a smile behind her cup.

"Yes; thank-you." Foyle hid his pleasure at the familiarity of the exchange.

They finished breakfast uninterrupted; Foyle insisted on doing the washing up and she looked on, albeit from rather close quarters. Pouring fresh tea into their cups, Barbara suggested they go into the sitting room.

But again the telephone rang.

"I'm not answering that." Foyle declared bullishly, drying his hands on a kitchen towel.

"What if it's Andrew?"

He waggled his head slightly, vacillating between annoyance and resignation and tossed the cloth down on the counter,

"Yes, yes, you're right –."

However, it wasn't his son. It was his friend, DCS Fielding of Hythe, who sounded a little drunk, which was concerning at half-past eight in the morning. Foyle promised to visit him soon, and was able to put the phone down not too long after telling another lie that his son was already home on leave from the RAF.

He met Barbara in the doorway of the kitchen and took his tea from her hand,

"Look, would you… consider coming to church with me? Get us out of the house; already told a dozen white lies this morning. Really rather not answer the telephone again."

"I seem to have put your soul in peril. Yes, of course I'll come to church."

In the sitting room, he immediately noticed the large cloth-wrapped parcel by the little Christmas tree.

"Oh. What's this?"

"It's for you. Open it."

Foyle appraised her with a mock suspicious eye and approached the task cautiously, while Barbara took down the blackout cloth and drew the curtains wide. Daylight streamed in, reflecting off the brilliant white that blanketed the street and the housetops. Having removed the wrapping, Foyle stared at the be-ribboned bottle of scotch with raised eyebrows. She came to stand beside him.

"As I recall you weren't overly keen on ginger beer. I thought you might be a single malt man. Was I right?"

"Yes, indeed. …Don't know what to say; rather extravagant of you, you know." He smiled happily.

"Well, I'm glad I was extravagant; if you're pleased, then I'm sure I'll have no regrets."

Though she had spoken lightly, there was something in her reply that put him on the alert; he turned to her, his smile fading into seriousness,

"Look, _er_, don't want to spoil the occasion, but, I feel I should say, Barbara, that, _er_, I would never do anything to cause you to regret your decision to…_em_…seek me out. Please put that doubt right out of your mind."

She looked up at him, somewhat taken aback,

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's understandable that you might feel a need to…_er_, to put me to some sort of… test."

Her mouth fell open,

"A test? You mean– the whisky?" She thought furiously for a moment,

"My _god_, I never even considered–. _Oh, god_, you're right…"

She lifted a hand to her forehead and stared into his eyes,

"I– How did you know I was thinking that… if _I_ didn't know it?"

"Well…, I'm not just good-looking, you know…"

He'd meant it merely as a humorous remark to lighten the mood, but she continued to stare at him, nodding her head slowly,

"I realised that last April; you had me rather frightened, you know, asking all those questions –."

"You had nothing to worry about, Barbara – you hadn't murdered anyone."

"No, but it seemed you were able to work out exactly how I might have done it… I was afraid I wouldn't be able to prove my innocence. And now look – you've worked out a… a motivation I didn't even know I had!"

"Well, I'm sorry – suppose it comes with the territory."

"No, don't apologise; it's – it's startling, but… rather helpful, really." She gazed downwards, puzzling over this new insight, and then looked him in the eyes again,

"Thank-you."

Foyle took her hand, and then carefully took her into his arms.

"Well, setting all that aside; thank-you, Barbara, very much for the Christmas present; very kind of you… and much appreciated."

"Even as a test?"

"No. As a damned fine bottle of scotch!"

He grinned and she smiled and relaxed against him, resting her forehead on his neck. Impulsively she kissed him below the ear; he turned to her and they met in an unexpectedly long, sensual kiss. Somewhat overcome, he said,

"Perhaps… we'd best set off for the church."

She smiled shyly,

"Before the telephone rings… Yes."

As Foyle waited in the hall for Barbara to come down, he noticed her shoes, rather scuffed and water-stained from her long walk through the snow. He had a quick look outside at the state of the road, which was covered to nearly six inches in feathery powder that threatened to melt into a slushy mess as the sun rose higher. The muted grey overcast sky seemed undecided and could just as easily clear or darken by noon.

Bending to take note of the shoe size, he frowned consideringly, and walked slowly upstairs.

He called out,

"Barbara, have you brought winter boots?"

She answered through Andrew's bedroom door,

"Oh… No. I don't know _what_ I was thinking when I left my lodgings."

"Ah; well, hang on…"

Foyle went into his bedroom, stooped down to feel into the back of the wardrobe, and drew out a slightly dusty box. Opening it, he took up the new, though no longer quite fashionable boots, pulled out the two wads of packing paper (he should have turned that in to the salvage boys long ago), checked the size (which he knew perfectly well), and then ran his hand over the surface of each one thoughtfully.

Outside the other bedroom door he said,

"Try these; they might do."

He left the pair on the carpet and walked downstairs to wait. Moments later he heard her descend, and turned; the sensation that ran through him at the sight of those boots coming down the steps was one of the oddest he'd ever experienced.

"Why, they fit nearly perfectly – I've only had to wear a second pair of thin socks – and they're hardly broken in!"

Then she caught sight of his face and understood.

"Are you sure, Christopher…?"

"Certainly; like you to have them. They've just been kept in a box –. Someone should get some use out of them, ...she… had only just bought them."

He turned away to retrieve her woollens and coat and then helped her into them.

tbc...


	3. Chapter 3

Church was a rather more solemn affair than Barbara had expected on this usually joyous holiday, however given the number of black arm bands, the reading of the names of lost sons and fathers, and the prayers offered for the soldiers, sailors and airmen, for all service men and women at home and abroad, her mood quickly matched that of the congregation. There were many out-of-town visitors amongst the regulars, Christopher informed her, and she noticed that this seemed to put him more at ease. Perhaps he had had some apprehension of appearing conspicuous.

They had not planned to hang about after the service, however, when he spotted one elderly, hearty retired minister amongst a circle of well-wishers, Foyle steered her by the arm and made an effort to edge a way in to the man's side to shake his hand warmly and speak to him.

"Reverend Quinn; happy Christmas. Good to see you here today."

"Ah, Christopher, here you are! Keeping well, my boy? And who is this enchanting vision?"

Barbara smiled as Christopher introduced her and explained to her that the Reverend Quinn had served the community for over forty years, had married him and had christened his son. From a look that passed between them, it was clear that the man had provided further spiritual services as well. They exchanged pleasantries and remarked about war news, and while Foyle was distracted in returning the greetings of another couple, the minister laid his hand confidentially upon her arm and spoke quietly,

"My dear, I do hope your work will allow you to visit from time to time, and if, when you are here, you can help persuade Christopher that there are other duties – duties to the self – that are just as important as duties to one's career and country, then you will do much towards restoring his soul to the peace and happiness it deserves…"

With a sprightly wink, he added _sotto voc_e, "I see rather a new light in his eye, my dear; I think you may be just the ticket!"

She was too surprised and delighted with his apparent endorsement to speak, and felt herself blushing; before she could respond to the kindly old gentleman, other parishioners moved in to claim his attention, but he managed to direct a smile and another wink at her as he was bustled away towards a waiting car.

She saw that Christopher had noted the high colour in her cheeks, but he did not remark upon it as he guided her out the doors and into the sunshine that had triumphed over the grey clouds of the morning. Outside they were approached by several other individuals and couples who all seemed bent on not only wishing Christopher the best of the season but learning the name of his companion.

She was pleased with the way he handled their questions, delegating to her the decision as to how much to disclose, and pleased that no one enquired very closely; in fact everyone they spoke with seemed happy just to see him out in company with a new friend.

They strolled comfortably together through the church grounds and she only realised he had a definite destination in mind when he stopped. He smiled at her and gestured upwards to the great old tree,

"Thought you might like to see this."

Uncharacteristically, she had not even noticed the magnificent specimen as they had walked, conversing easily side-by-side; now she gazed up in surprised admiration.

"It's beautiful! _Platanus orientali_s; the trunk must be sixteen feet around – do you know its age?"

"Well, parts of the church date back to the twelfth century, but I've heard the tree is between… two hundred fifty and three hundred years old…?"

"Yes, given the average annual growth rate for this variety that sounds about right. How marvellous! It must be lovely in summer. Thank-you for showing it to me, Christopher." In her enthusiasm she took his arm, beaming with happiness.

He studied the ground, smiling, and murmured,  
"A pleasure."

Then he looked at her,  
"What, _er_… did the Reverend Quinn say to you… to bring such colour to your cheek…?" He brushed her face tenderly with the back of his fingers.

Barbara eyed him, still smiling, but only answered with a lift of an eyebrow. They strolled on a little further so that she could take in the full majesty of the old tree's crown; she admired it silently while he took a few steps away, apparently to better admire her. When she looked towards him his attention had drifted away.

She saw his gaze had become introspective and she turned to follow his line of sight – off in the distance, up the slope of the hill, lay the low gates of the churchyard with its orderly array of gravestones. She bit her lip with the realisation that this place held other associations, other very strong emotions, for him. She wondered if he would feel able to speak to her about it. Last spring he had returned the same concise response about his history as she had given about hers – but now she had revealed much more.

She watched him deliberating over the matter, and read in his features the precise moment when he changed his mind – a slight wince of his eyes and a sad downturn of his mouth: he wasn't ready to share this with her.

As they turned back along the path together an unwanted disappointment settled over her; she couldn't ask him – to do so would alter his view of her – yet she had to concede that she feared her feelings towards him might now change… _god_, it was all so difficult; and tomorrow morning she must leave his home and go to the hotel… 

* * *

After a pleasant enough luncheon at a cafe and a walk along the seafront they had returned to his house. By the evening he still had volunteered nothing about his marriage or his wife – she began to find it odd that he could have put such an important part of his life away, boxed it up and kept it entirely separate from his present existence. It seemed unhealthy, somehow: never to drop her name into a conversation, to mention any past incident or anecdote from their life together…

She decided she must try to force the issue – she didn't like the idea – yet it seemed necessary. If they were to reach a higher level of intimacy and confidence in each other, tonight was the best, perhaps the only opportunity before she had to return to her work. She didn't know where in the north she might be sent, and if there were no definite understanding between them when she left, then it would be that much more difficult to justify a return to Hastings on her next leave.

And now she knew just how badly she _did_ wish to return – having made her bold move in coming here, gambling on whether the stirring of feeling she had experienced last April was at all reciprocated – her heart was now unmistakably involved.

She had never done anything like this in her life, but in these desperate times –. No, she corrected herself, it wasn't a case of desperate measures; it was a case of recognising a rare opportunity to make a connection with an exceptional man, the only man who had faced and passed through her prickly defences whole and unscathed, and who had, in his quiet, enquiring way, awoken the sympathies of the woman within.

It was the circumstances of war that had brought them into each other's company, and it was the constraints and pressures of war that dictated a rather more rushed… Did she dare think of the word 'courtship'? Perhaps not, but some sort of understanding must be achieved, one way or the other. To do that, she needed to know the story of his wife's tragic early death – it was the event that had made him the man he was now, and it needed to be acknowledged.

Barbara had, of course, noticed the photograph on the small table by his chair, and had expected him to say something about it last night, but he had not. Now they were in the sitting room together again, he in his chair and she on the near end of the sofa, having finished their after-dinner cups of tea. She leaned towards him with a concerned smile,

"Christopher, will you tell me about your wife? What was her name?"

At her words he didn't exactly flinch, but she would have to say that he 'clenched' – it was as if he drew himself in and braced himself against the question. He did not look at her; the lines around his mouth deepened before he spoke.

"…Her name was Rosalind… She was very highly thought of; she worked devotedly to help the less fortunate of Hastings; she… had many friends – _you'd_ have liked her – in many ways you are alike, I think…" he gave her the briefest glance,  
"She, like you, was… very independent… and intelligent."

Barbara smiled at him to acknowledge the compliment, and then it seemed that, instead of a preamble to a full account, this was all he was going to say.

She waited a few moments, steeled herself, and asked gently,  
"Christopher, what happened to Rosalind…?"

His brow furrowed and he looked towards the hearth.  
"_Er_…typhoid."

"When did it happen?"

"…Nearly ten years ago. Ten years in February."

He glanced at her with a tight smile as he got up from his chair and walked several paces away with no apparent goal in mind.

Barbara compressed her lips, and then tried again,  
"…Reverend Quinn seemed a very wise, helpful man… He must have been of great comfort to you at the time…?"

"Yes; very helpful." Foyle's answer was fast, clipped; he ran a hand over his eyes and down his face,  
"Look, _er_, I can't – I don't think I can… talk about this. I'm sorry."

She watched his profile for a moment, then bowed her head unhappily,  
"No. I'm sorry, Christopher; I've put you on the spot, in so many ways, coming here like this. I – I had so hoped–."

Her words caught in her throat, but then she recovered and smiled regretfully,  
"Of course; you're used to _asking_ questions, not answering them; delving into other people's lives, not revealing your own…"

She knew she was being manipulative and she didn't like it, but –.  
"And… I know I don't have your way of inspiring trust… I'm sorry; I've made you uncomfortable."

Foyle frowned in dismay and came to sit by her on the sofa. He reached out to cover her hand with his. For some moments he stroked her hand as he struggled against his reluctance.

Finally, gazing at the carpet, he answered very quietly,  
"You're right; not used to it, but… I do trust you, Barbara." he glanced at her, squeezed her fingers, and with some difficulty began to speak.

"…It was typhoid fever; traced to contact with a person she had served at the soup kitchen – there was another case reported at the time."

He paused, glanced again at her face, and took in a breath,  
"Seemed to come out of the blue. On the Sunday, mid-morning, she felt unwell… by the evening… we'd sent Andrew to a friend's and had gone to hospital. She lasted four days."

Barbara said in a hushed voice,  
"The suddenness – it must have been dreadful."

He shook his head, staring into the middle distance for a long moment,  
"No… the opposite. It was sudden for me and for Andrew, yes. But for her –."

He let go of her hand and covered his eyes.

"For Rosalind – she had just enough time to- to understand she was about to die. And she– felt such guilt, such remorse – knowing she would leave us –."

With a great effort he forced himself to continue,  
"Nothing I said helped –; I couldn't–. There wasn't time–."

He dragged his fingers hard against his brow,  
"She died… blaming herself… for leaving us alone."

Barbara saw that he fought for composure,  
"I'd've given anything to have spared her that–."

His next words came out in a strangled rush,  
"_Sometimes wished she'd been struck down in the street_–."

Shaking his head he took in a ragged breath,

"She was… _so loved_ – shouldn't've had to die with those thoughts…"  
He dried his eyes with the back of his hand,  
"Reverend Quinn said she was at peace, but…"  
He bowed his head, moving it doubtfully from side to side.

Barbara cautiously put a hand on his forearm, tears running freely down her face, and gave him time, before saying very quietly,  
"If… _you_ couldn't persuade her… perhaps God could…"

He shut his eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly.  
"Hope so."

She waited as he dwelt amongst his painful memories, sorry to have put him there yet relieved to know that he _could_ talk to her of them. Again she spoke softly,  
"Thank-you for telling me, Christopher; I felt I needed to know…"

Again he gave the merest nod.

"It… _doesn't_ help to talk about it, does it? But… I feel I understand better…"

Foyle ran a hand over his face and took in a deep breath; he sat back on the sofa, but still frowned almost despondently at the floor.

"Shall I…; I-I'll make us some fresh tea…"

After touching his arm and looking closely at him, she rose and went into the kitchen, ran water into the kettle and stood before the cooker, her arms wrapped around herself. She wept a little, for his sorrow and for the woman he had loved and who had loved him.

The water came to a boil and she warmed the teapot, spooned the loose tea in and poured hot water over it; as she set the tea cosy in place she felt him approach from behind and her heart lifted. He put his arms around her, kissed her temple and held her close.

tbc...


	4. Chapter 4

For the remainder of the evening Foyle was, naturally, rather subdued; he answered her questions about his earlier years more readily, and gradually began to elaborate on his responses, but he was pre-occupied with working out how he felt. He had never opened this most guarded incident of his life to anyone, or at least, never shared his feelings about it; it was painful to re-visit; it brought up unalterable emotions of remorse, profound sadness, and despair, and he preferred to keep it locked away and private.

He had always felt it could never help to speak of it – and that was precisely what Barbara had said to him. She had listened, had thanked him, and had given him privacy and time to recover. Having learned the details, she was content to close the subject.

And yet, now, it wasn't the same; it wouldn't be locked away in one of his boxes again – the facts were shared between them, perhaps to remain unmentioned for a long time, but acknowledged and, he believed, sympathetically understood.

Foyle watched Barbara's face as she talked, listened to her words and considered the bruised heart and resilient soul before him, and he knew that he truly wished to be with her.

The realisation put an end to his introspections; he came into the present moment fully attentive.

The hour was late; the long day was beginning to tell in shadows under her eyes. Having come to a decision about her, he found himself rather out of his depth and was unsure what to do next, but she was asking him a question.

"And, er, what time do you expect your son…?"

"I should think he'll be on the early train and arrive shortly after ten."

"You must be looking forward to having him home for a few days."

"Yes, yes indeed; Andrew's… only in Debden, but haven't seen him for two months."

Foyle had let his gaze fall towards the hearth, now he suddenly looked up at her,  
"I'd very much like you to meet him, Barbara. Perhaps, Saturday, we could join you for lunch at your hotel?"

Her face lit with a delighted smile,  
"Yes, I'd like that very much."

"And, _er_, if he's not busy with his friends, the three of us could have dinner together one night... don't know the duration of his leave as yet, but, _er_, we'll play it by ear, _hmm_?"

"That's very kind of you, Christopher."

"On the contrary, should think I'll score some points. He does go on at me to… _er_, to get out more."

He gave her a sheepish grin and she raised her eyebrows in surprise at his admission.

Their conversation grew more informal and easy, but a half-hour later Barbara stifled a yawn and smiled bashfully.

Foyle gave her a chiding look,  
"Come on, then; kept you up till all hours this morning – Can't deprive you of another night's rest."

With an arm around her waist and hers around his, he slowly walked her to the bottom of the stairs. They kissed, and as she rose up onto the first step, sliding her arm from around him, he felt the gentlest upward pressure of her hand on his back and he sensed – no, he understood – that she was inviting him, if a guest could be said to invite her host, to accompany her upstairs. He knew he had only to put his foot on the step and there would be no turning back, no stopping what would follow… but he wouldn't, he couldn't do that. He had to consider their future, their respect for each other and their self-respect; these things must not be jeopardized by a momentary abandonment of self-control.

However, he didn't want to give the impression that he was uninterested, nor that he disapproved of her impulse. It was a delicate situation, and one with which he had never had to contend before – he gazed up into her eyes, bit his bottom lip thoughtfully to show that he was, indeed, aware of her invitation and was wrestling with the temptation; with a slow blink of his eyes he murmured,

"Good-night, Barbara; sleep well."

She smiled, wistfully he thought, a blush rising on her cheeks, said good-night, and made her way up the stairs.

In the back recesses of his mind he wondered if it had, perhaps, unconsciously, been another test, but he doubted it; they had shared so much today that he really believed it had been a genuine and natural extension of her feelings for him…

As he systematically made his nightly round of the house, securing the doors, checking the blackout curtains and breaking up the fire in the hearth to preserve any unconsumed coals, he felt a mild sort of satisfaction and congratulated himself on his conscientious probity under such an enticing inducement.

However, when he went upstairs twenty minutes later, as he approached her bedroom door, he thought he heard muffled sounds of weeping – he couldn't be sure, for the noises ceased as soon as his foot landed on the creaking floorboard at the top of the stairs, the one he had purposely left unrepaired during his son's teenage years and had never got round to fixing. He prepared for bed and undressed with a troubling doubt nagging at his conscience…

* * *

At some point in the dream he knew he was dreaming, some alert part of his unconscious mind began to observe the imagined scene and, knowing it was unreal and fleeting, to fervently pray, to will that it not end too soon, before the action could play itself out to the desired conclusion.

The dream had begun in the kitchen with an embrace, her laughing eyes turned up to him over her shoulder as he surprised her with a kiss on the neck; had changed instantly, as dreams do, to the two of them lying naked on the bed, touching, caressing, exciting every part of the other; and then he was moving over her, entranced by her expression of complete surrender to the passion and pleasure they shared. He saw her doe-brown eyes again, shining with love for him, saw the sinuous dark waves of her hair over the pillow; heard her whispered cries, and nearly, tantalisingly had the scent of her warm skin; he felt her hands run down his back and then upwards to pull him closer, deeper; he groaned his ecstasy…

It was this that brought the dream to an abrupt stop at an excruciating moment.

He awoke to his own guttural moan in the silent, dark room, coughed to disguise the sound, but that altered in his throat to a gasping sob. He found himself in an intense, intimately personal predicament – one that he had not experienced to such a degree for some years, and that he was loath to relieve himself of, knowing his guest was in the next room. He rolled onto his side with his back to the door, his chest heaving as his mind strove to recapture the details of the dream – it had been so _vivid_… he'd not had such a vivid dream of her for many years and he was overcome with an agonised kind of gratitude.

While he steadied his breathing he recalled, so clearly, the living image of her beloved face, and her captivating manner of utter abandonment to the joy of their love-making – she had been a strong, independent, self-possessed person, and it was his sense of his power to bring her to such a reckless state that had always thrilled him. The private passion they inspired in each other had been something completely apart from their public demeanour.

With his _mind_ he had always remembered this, of course, but it was the physical memory that had faded over the years until it had been all but lost to him. As quietly as possible, not in sorrow but with grateful wonder, he wept for this gift of remembrance.

As his emotion subsided he dried his face with the back of his hand and lay thinking, and considered the circumstances that had brought this extraordinary dream to him. He knew that it was inspired by the growing intimacy between himself and Barbara, and he acknowledged again that his attraction to her was more to do with her independent nature than merely her beauty; had the strength of her personality not been hardened by double tragedy into a defensive shell, when they'd first met he might have consciously recognised this similarity to Rosalind.

She had begun to soften her defenses with him quite quickly last April, and he believed they were completely gone now… He recalled that moment in the kitchen when she had suddenly seemed willing to offer herself to him entirely – it had been too unexpected, too soon; then, they hardly knew each other… In less than two days they had confided so much to each other that he now felt a close connection to her; and last night, had he not, truly, been tempted?

He rolled onto his back again, his crisis having nearly resolved itself, raised one knee and rested an arm across his forehead.

In these uncertain times, when death could apparently fall out of the sky at any moment, the general urge to seize some instance of comfort - no, of pleasure - was prevalent. Might she not be feeling that way, too? It seemed fairly clear that she was. Then what had stopped _him_? The longer view: a possible distant future together, safe within the bonds of matrimony – when this war ended and the world was set right again…

Well, nothing was guaranteed; he, of all people, should understand that.

And, really, how could this in any way jeopardize that future? After all, they were two unencumbered, mature adults; they knew exactly what they were doing; they liked and respected each other – perhaps they would eventually marry, if the fates allowed. Perhaps… they were in love.

The thought gave him pause: could he have fallen in love so quickly? Had he contemplated marriage to Barbara without recognizing, acknowledging… that he loved her? That she… loved _him_?

Foyle let his arm fall onto the mattress and stared intensely into the darkness above him.  
_By god! What on earth had he been thinking? _

This fascinating, alluring woman had sought him out, had put herself to no small amount of trouble to come to him, had taken her courage in her hands, risked a great deal of her pride, and made such a bold move–! Yet he had retreated behind conventions outmoded by the times and essentially irrelevant at his stage of life.

_Where was his passion!?_

What must she think of him, now?

And he had heard her weeping…

_Christ_.

Foyle squeezed his eyes shut in a grimace of self-reproach.

He'd undoubtedly missed his chance, a chance to share with her, not only a deeply satisfying pleasure, but what could be the highest expression of trust and commitment to one another, if done in the right spirit…

He understood now that he had made a dreadful mistake.  
It was hardly something for which he could apologise in the morning…  
Foyle closed his eyes and heaved a despondent sigh into the darkness. 

* * *

He could not sleep again, plagued with thoughts and schemes as to how to repair the damage he had certainly done. He rose early, washed and dressed and went quietly downstairs. It was too soon to begin preparing the breakfast, so he made a pot of tea and drank a cup in the sitting room. He felt decidedly regretful, staring into the rekindled flames in the hearth, and was determined to make amends for his stupidity.

But first he telephoned the Arms, confirmed they had a vacancy and reserved the room for her. Eventually he heard quiet stirring overhead, but it was a long time before she came down. When her feet sounded on the stairs, he rose and made an effort to look cheerful, however, the sight of her suitcase was instantly disheartening. She set it down in the hall before greeting him somewhat cautiously.

"Good morning, Christopher…"

She gave him a small smile and kissed his cheek. He saw the telltale puffiness around her eyes, and felt the new reserve in her manner, and it brought a sensible pain to his heart. Gently he took hold of her and gathered her into his arms.

"Good morning, darling."

At his use of the endearment she tightened her embrace; they stood some moments together, until she turned away, crossing the room to draw the curtains and take down the blackout cloth.

"I've changed the linens and remade Andrew's bed, so he'll find no trace of me… I should imagine he's inherited your eye for observation and deduction?"

"He's shown no particular signs that way…"

He watched her, frustrated and undecided, various phrases of explanation and apology running through his mind. Somehow they all seemed quite impossible to say.

She picked up his empty teacup,  
"Any more of this…?"

The simple request galvanized him into a display of energy; he attentively put an arm around her shoulders to lead her into the kitchen, and seated her at the table.

"Of course! Hungry? Or is it too soon– _er_, that is, too early – because, if you're hungry _now_, we should breakfast– I'll start the breakfast. No reason to wait, to put it off –."

She looked at him sideways,  
"No, just a cup of tea would be lovely."

He continued talking as he reached down another cup and lifted the pot, turning back to her,

"People _should_ eat when they're hungry, really, don't you agree? Not at some set time… determined by convention or… the clock on the wall… Especially in times like these, so many people work all hours, odd locations… Should take the opportunity when they can…"

He felt he was babbling, stopped, and cleared his throat. He turned away to pour the tea, and then passed the cup with both hands, covering her fingers with his,

"Just milk; no sugar."

He offered her a brief smile, refilled his own cup and sat down opposite her at the table. She watched him with a frank curiosity that he found almost disconcerting; after an uncomfortable pause a sudden inspiration struck him,

"Haven't asked the name of your favourite flower."

"No… and it's terribly remiss of you."

She smiled behind her cup, amused at his efforts, he supposed. He rather liked the way she did that – Rosalind had always had the knack of taking the mickey out of him.

"It is. Dreadfully. I– I apologise. What is it?"

She looked down thoughtfully, then met his eyes,

"I've always preferred wildflowers, and I used to favour the Rosebay Willowherb, _Chamerion angustifolium_, but now it grows so prolifically in bombsites that the associations are unpleasant. This past summer I got to know _Phyteuma orbiculare_ – it's found most commonly on the South Downs, you know, and I became rather attached to it. Whenever I come across it at another location, it's like finding a dear friend."

She rested her elbows on the table, her hands folded together below her chin.

"What's its English name?"

"The Round-headed Rampion."

Knowing little about flowers, Foyle wondered if he was meant to blush, if it was some reference, like the line in 'Hamlet' describing Ophelia's garlands, but she smiled quite innocently, and then instructively held a hand out before him, palm-up and forming a hollow ball with her fingers.

"It has narrow little petals in sharp-blue that curl up into the centre – forming a round head, hence the name; it looks as if it could trap something in there – but it doesn't – it simply waits for the honeybee to come along… and happily accepts whatever attention it receives."

She sipped her tea while he digested this, and concluded,  
"We have much to learn from the flowers…"

Foyle chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully,  
"You're quoting something?"

"I don't think so… perhaps; or it's just a poetic inspiration of my own."

"_Hmm_… sounds rather like an important truth." He scratched the side of his head,  
"And, garden variety flowers?"

"Oh, everything – the more the merrier – a riot of colour and shape and scent!"

He smiled,  
"Not a formalist when it comes to gardens, then?"

"I do, certainly, appreciate a formal, classically-designed garden for its merits, but it's not my taste."

Foyle nodded, and lifted his eyebrows inquiringly,  
"Your favourite colour?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Of course I do."

"Will you be keeping a file on me?"

"Only in here." He tapped a finger on his temple.

"Ah, but men are notorious for forgetting–."

He seized her hand impulsively as it rested on the table,  
"Not me."

Seeing he had startled her, he let it go and said reassuringly,  
"I don't forget."

She gave him an uncertain smile,  
"Like an elephant, then?"

"Well, …rather an unfortunate comparison, but yes, suppose so. For certain… important things."

She pressed her lips together, then ran the tip of her tongue between them,  
"Being a nature-lover, I prefer all shades of green…"

"I've noticed."

He sat back in the chair, one hand lightly toying with the handle of his teacup, and met her eyes,

"You have… a pine-green corduroy jacket; a hunter-green cardigan; an olive-drab jumper, though of course that's Land Army-issue and not your own choice; yesterday you wore a shamrock-green scarf and a very fine, antique, twenty-four carat gold brooch re-set with costume emeralds – which… leads me to believe that your sense of practicality is stronger than any tendency towards sentimentality; but that's beside the point–."

Barbara stared at him, disconcerted yet fascinated.  
He leaned forward on the table, still absently playing with the teacup.

"Last April… you dyed the German's parachute silk a subtle jade-green that… beautifully complimented the green in your eyes."

He tilted his head to one side, eyebrows raised, and half-smiled.

She had watched his face closely while he talked, had gone very still, and now seemed at a loss for words.

Thoughtfully she rose from her chair, carried their two cups to the sink, and took in a breath,  
"…However, lately I find myself quite partial to an unusual, bright, sky-blue."

He turned towards her, rising to his feet,  
"Where, in nature, have you found that colour?"

"It's rare; I've only seen the exact shade in… one location, and even then, in different lights, it changes; I don't think it could be matched, really."

"I see; and you prefer this odd, inconsistent, blue-ish colour, now?" he queried, moving close to her.

"Yes, it's something I'd very much like to have near me."

"How would that be possible? You say it's found in only one location. _You_ have to travel from place to place…"

"Yes …well, I'm afraid that's my lot for the duration."

He fixed his lucid, electric-blue eyes on hers.

She put her hand up to touch the side of his face and continued very quietly,  
"I suppose… I'll have to be content… to return whenever I get leave…"

Under his penetrating look she slowly melted against him; he brought his arms up to hold her and brushed his lips on her cheek.

"Hoped you might consider it… for the duration. And… when the war is over… perhaps… a permanent re-location? You _are_ fond of the South Downs…"

With a tremulous smile she nodded, then gave a short laugh and blinked back a tear.

"Barbara, ...so glad you came to Hastings for Christmas…"

He drew her closer and pressed his mouth on hers in a gently exploring, probing kiss, as if seeking answers to all his questions in this embrace. She responded rather more ardently and he began to feel an intoxicating level of excitement; they paused, breathing slowly, heads together.

"I have to leave…"

"Yes. Bad timing on my part."

She smiled,  
"No, it's all right… No 'shabby tigers' here, I see."

He squinted at her, raising an eyebrow.

"Sorry; it's from a… rather silly novel a girl at my billet lent me when I had nothing better to read – an amateur detective novel, actually."

"I see. You'll have to explain the reference to me sometime."

"I have a feeling that won't be necessary."

She took hold of his hand and turned it round to look at his wristwatch.  
"_Hmm_, quarter past nine."

"Should order the taxi." He made a regretful face.

"Yes." She smiled a wistful smile and followed him through to the sitting room.

In the hall, he had just put his hand over the telephone when it rang; he turned and gave her a look before picking up the receiver.

"Foyle here. Andrew! Where are you? Just outside Debden…? Oh, yes… That's very kind of them. Is that so? A sister… I see. No, that's all right, son; no, I'm fine. Just… have a very good time and I'll see you this evening. Half past five– do you need a ride from the station? No, but I could meet you with a taxi… Ah. Well, I'll just hang on here, then."

He put the phone down, stood thoughtfully a moment, but when he turned to speak, she was suddenly right there in front of him, an expectant blush over her features.

"He's… catching a later train."

"Oh– yes?"

"Yes… so there's no need to rush off just –."

Before he could finish she was in his arms and he met her kiss eagerly. She pressed herself against him in an unexpectedly intimate way; he hesitated and was about to suggest they go upstairs when her hand discovered and began to encourage his aroused condition. He gasped, surprised and disconcerted, and was shocked when she slid down onto her knees before him.

Almost roughly he pulled her up by her arms and held her tight to his chest, appalled by the craven submission. He said hoarsely in her ear,  
"Barbara, - don't want to see you like that."

Taking her by the shoulders he stared anxiously into her face, but she kept her eyes down, overcome with shame – more than that, she was frightened.

Her voice was a tearful whisper,  
"It's what _he_ expected of me… You wouldn't–. And I didn't know if…"

"No; never. I'd never ask…"

"He didn't ask." She said dully.

"Oh, _god_; I'm so sorry –." He held her very gently, stroking her hair,  
"Perhaps we should talk about it…"

"No! I don't want to _talk_ about it! I want you... to make love to me…" She shut her eyes in despair.

Foyle took in a breath and looked up at the ceiling; he kissed her brow, lifted her chin so that she met his eyes, and murmured,  
"I'd rather make love _with_ you…"

tbc...


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** I've added Caroline to Foyle's list of lovers, during his pillow talk with Barbara, although we hadn't known of her back in 2006 when I was writing this, had we?

As soon as I figure out how to do it, I will post an M-rated version of this scene, for those who like that sort of thing. ;oD

* * *

In the bedroom with her he found it was rather the way he remembered his wedding night, except that, now, he was less nervous. Though trembling, she allowed him to begin to undress her, but as he sensed her increasing discomfort he stopped, kissed her, and invited her into his bed. They finished undressing with their backs to each other.

Lying on his side under the covers, he folded an arm below his head and held her fingers to his lips,

"Nothing will happen that you haven't consented to; nothing I would _do_, nothing I would _care_ to do, without your agreement…" He touched her cheek, gently turning her face towards him,

"…and that works both ways, you know?"

That made her smile a little. He could hardly believe how shy she was with him, thinking back to her aggressive attitude when they'd first met. More than anything he meant to earn her trust now.

He proceeded cautiously, slowly, seeking and ensuring he had her approval, waiting for her eyes to meet his, listening to the tenor of her sighs. The process was deliciously tantalizing, discovering this unfamiliar, lovely body.

But when his sensitive fingers felt what he knew must be scar tissue across her back, he remembered the rhyme she'd recited in the woods last April -_ 'the woman, the dog and the chestnut tree, the more you beat them...'_ He checked himself from showing a reaction; it was not the time to acknowledge the full extent of the abuse she had suffered.

This would be just for the two of them.

* * *

After their love-making he lay stupefied until he felt the soft touch of her nose against his, opened his eyes to see her smiling and weeping at once, like rain on a bright spring day. He kissed her, let his fingers play through her hair, and breathed,

"Thank-you…"

Then realised she had spoken the same word at the same moment, and they smiled at each other.

Some time later Foyle awoke to the blissful sensation of a warm, soft body spooning against him, his arms around silky flesh and his feet entangled with hers. He listened to her quiet breathing, kissed her shoulder, delicately traced the contour of her cheek with his fingers.

When she woke they made love again, and then lay together talking.

"Christopher, how many lovers have you had?"

"Rather personal question…" He paused, grinned, and then answered,

"Let me see: there was Caroline, we met when I was injured in the last war. There was Rosalind, and… then there was… you. That makes, _er_, three, if I haven't miscounted."

"Only three!" She watched his face as she took this in.

"There _was_ a girl, a young lady… before I volunteered in the First War. I… asked her to marry me. She accepted; her father refused permission. We were never lovers."

"But you loved her."

"I did, yes."

"Was that... the reason you volunteered?"

"Mmmight have had something to do with it."

"Three. But – not even in France? You were a soldier."

"Well..., there was a brief…_ liaison_… Actually, she was Polish…"

"That makes four."

"Including you."

"And no one since Rosalind…?"

"No."

"Then, why m–?"

He cut off her question,

"No-no: your turn; how many? Get out the list."

"A gentleman shouldn't ask a lady such a question."

He tilted his head and waited.

"Well, my husband, of course, though we weren't exactly married the first time… and, quite soon after he died, there was this friend of his, a man from his office, I'm afraid; he kept coming round to the house and, with the state I was in, one thing led to another; I think he rather took advantage of it, actually. I realised it was a mistake straight away; I needed time alone, time to work out who I was – or who I could be… So, I sold the house, we moved away... Since then… no one."

"Not that men haven't tried…"

"Well, yes, but, I thought I was happy on my own, with my son. I _was_ happy. I saw him through school, and then he joined up."

Barbara closed her eyes tight for a moment, then, putting that pain aside, she heaved a sigh,

"I suppose I blamed men for everything after that – the war, killing, brutality, violence – I blamed every man that looked at me."

"_Mmm_, I still bear the marks…" He said, rubbing his cheek as if it had been slapped; then he gave her a warm smile.

"Why me, Christopher?"

"N-no, that's… not the right question."

He repositioned the pillow against the headboard and looked into her eyes,

"'Why… _us_?' Perhaps… I fell _instantly_ in love with you, without knowing it. I do know I was very deeply intrigued. Before I could act on my feelings, you were gone; seemed to be nothing I could do about it. Even a policeman _as lofty as myself_ can't go asking for classified information on the movements of war workers."

She closed her eyes in self-reproach and he caressed the blonde locks curling over her ear.

"I thought about you, wondered where you were, but… it seemed a hopeless case. Had no reason to believe you thought of me… Then you turned up on my doorstep."

He leaned over to kiss her, then settled onto his back, pulling her nearer.

"Now, you give the other half of the answer."

She looked thoughtful for a few moments.

"Well, I wasn't certain I'd fallen in love with you, but I knew I wanted to see you again – you'd had a strong effect on me. You somehow had made me see things clearly for the first time in a long time – since Dunkirk. I felt more_ myself_… even after I'd been moved on; I was more at peace. You were constantly in my thoughts, but I couldn't get back –. Then I got notice of my leave and… all I could think of was coming here, coming to find you. Crazy, hmm? I mean, you might have been out of town; you might have had a house full of visitors, but–."

She appealed to him for understanding.

"But I hadn't."

He smiled,

"Have we answered the question?"

Moving closer, she stretched an arm across his middle and closed her eyes happily,

"Yes, I think we have…"

Her eyes flew open with a sudden thought,

"Visitors! – _good god_, what time is it?"

He twisted round to look at the clock on the bedside table.

"It's – it's half-past four. Oh dear."

She sat bolt upright, apparently forgetting she was naked,

"I've got to go–! You've got to order a cab!"

She threw off the covers, leapt out of the bed and began pulling on whatever undergarments came to hand. Foyle watched, transfixed and highly entertained by the spectacle. She glanced over her shoulder at him,

"Well, shift, man! What would your son think of you?"

He reluctantly, but quickly, started to dress,

"Right, right… Actually, I think he'd be quite impressed…" he began chuckling to himself.

"Well– what would he think of _me_? This is hardly a fitting introduction to–." She stopped herself, while continuing to pull a silk, rose-pink slip over her peach utility brassiere, corset and knickers.

"…To _whom_?" He closed his trouser buttons over his shirt-tails, pulled up his braces and came round the foot of the bed to her side.

"…To his father's sweetheart?"

Taking her in his arms, he straightened the ribbon shoulder strap for her, and she shyly bowed her head, smiling. He tilted her chin up,

"…To his father's… fiancée?"

Still smiling, she said,

"I don't recall being asked any such question, Detective Chief Superintendent."

Frowning, he muttered absently,

"No? Sure I have it in my case notes."

"Well, go and look it up in your case notes while I finish dressing; and please, order a cab!"

* * *

Fifteen minutes later she joined him in the sitting room.

"I'm afraid the taxi's going to be thirty minutes. But don't worry – they'll send a car here before picking up anyone at the train station."

"You look very..." He added as she brought him his tie and draped it around his neck.

"And _you_ look…" she kissed him happily, "…like the cat that ate the cream…"

Foyle glanced away, smiling but embarrassed,

"Well… yeah."

Still looking away, he asked,

"_Em_, Barbara, wondered…would it be, _er_…" he scratched his head worriedly, "…out of line for me to offer to pay for the cab and hotel…?"

She arched an eyebrow at him with a wry smile,

"'Out of line…?' You mean, would I be offended…?"

"Well, just that… might look as though… I mean, _em_… Of course, _it's not_; I mean: _you're not_…"

She answered with an amused grin,

"…Not your 'kept woman' – your 'fancy woman,' as Joan would say?"

Foyle's expression changed to an uncomfortable frown and she sobered instantly,

"Thank-you for offering, Christopher, but no – I can manage quite well. I do appreciate the chivalrous gesture…"

She waited til he smiled again, kissed him, slipped the tie under his collar, made the knot and began to tighten it. Then changed her mind and loosened it again. She said with a contented sigh,

"You know, I think I prefer your informal look…"

Drawing the tie over his head she playfully discarded it. Foyle watched her face with amused curiosity.

"In fact, if you feel at all the way I do just now… then you have no business looking so calm and collected, so unruffled…" She pushed the unbuttoned waistcoat from his shoulders and tossed it behind him, and his smile widened. With another kiss as a pretext for putting her arms around him, she slipped her hands under his braces and pulled them down to hang over his trousers.

"Don't you feel the least bit… reckless?"

"Is that the way you feel?" he surprised himself by lifting her off her feet and turning in a full circle. When he set her down she swayed into him, laughing; to keep his balance he took a step back, his leg knocked against the side table and the small lamp fell to the carpet. They both ignored it.

She smiled blissfully, her brow touching his,

"_Hmm_… I feel… exhilarated!" She laughed and pulled up his shirt-tails, then ran her hands over his chest and around his back under the shirt.

"Barbara, …the cab is on its way…!"

He almost managed a reproving look, and brought his arm up to show her his watch. She looked at it dutifully, but then unfastened the strap and let the watch drop onto the nearby chair. Foyle eyed her, still trying to look disapproving but not quite achieving it, and she slipped the cuff-link out of his shirt cuff. Just as he raised his other arm with an encouraging smile and presented the cuff to her, they heard the sound of a motor pull up in front of the house.

She made an unhappy, regretful face and met his eyes; Foyle looked at her anxiously, and then himself removed the other cuff-link and threw it over his shoulder.

She gave a little laugh,

"Then you do feel just a little reckless…?"

He gazed into her eyes and heaved a sigh,

"Barbara… darling, I feel… in a state of grace – received a blessing I'm quite undeserving of…"

He kissed her softly and when he drew back saw she was moved.

"Thought… I'd never –. I love you, Barbara, and, if you'll have me, I'd… W-will you marry me?"

She brushed a tear from her cheek, sniffed and smiled,

"What a question to ask when there's a cab waiting at the door!"

"I know – sorry – just didn't want –."

"_'Seize the day'_…?"

"Absolutely!"

They heard the door of the cab open and shut.

Foyle sat her in the chair and got down on one knee before her, holding her hand and looking straight into her eyes,

"Will you marry me, Barbara?"

Her eyes never left his as she took in a ragged breath and answered,

"Yes, Christopher, I will marry you."

As the cabbie knocked on the door, Foyle kissed her hand, drew her head towards him to kiss her lips tenderly, and then smiled, blinking back tears.

"Thank-you…"

He cleared his throat,

"I'll, _er_, just get that."

At the door he gave her travel case to the cabbie and asked him to wait just a few moments. The driver eyed him up and down, nodded and went back to his car.

Barbara stood uncertainly in the middle of the room; Foyle took her in his arms again,

"I'm sorry – this isn't very romantic, is it?"

She smiled but gave him an appraising look,

"Perhaps not romantic, but I'm beginning to suspect rather a lot of hidden, smouldering passion…"

"Hidden? You mean, you don't know? Can I let you leave me, then –!"

He smiled rather mischievously.

"I-I haven't any doubts, Chris–."

Before she could finish he had swiftly moved her onto the sofa and laid her back gently, murmuring,

"_'Had we but world enough and time…'_"

She laughed and then bit her lip,

"Well, that's hardly appropriate – I'm not in the least bit coy or reluctant – but the taxi…!"

She pushed him back onto his knees on the floor and got up, standing over him,

"I hope you haven't forgotten that Andrew will be here soon…"

"No. Curse the boy for thinking of his lonely father…"

He growled, smiling, but she reacted with mock outrage and picked up a cushion from the sofa, making as if to strike him with it.

He put up his hands in defense,

"I take it back!"

He tilted his head and looked up at her admiringly.

"Would you have hit Neame with that tree branch?"

"Oh, well, I might have done, if it seemed necessary."

Climbing to his feet, he took the cushion from her hand and tossed it away.

"I see…"

The corners of his mouth turned down and he nodded his head slowly, impressed.

"Well, don't let me, _er_…"

He had meant to make a joke to ease the moment of parting, but found he couldn't do it. Instead, he grew almost distressed,

"…We'll see each other tomorrow, darling…?"

She read the emotion in his eyes and welled up,

"Of course we will –. Come and help me with my coat…"

Foyle stood rooted, surprised at his sudden sense of desperation, breathing hard.

Barbara took up another cushion and threatened him with it, arching an eyebrow at him.

He managed a crooked grin and they went to the hall to fetch her coat.

One last, lingering kiss, a few urgent whispered promises, and she was gone. He watched her in the cab until it was out of sight, and shut the door.

* * *

Sitting in his chair by the hearth, composed now and filled with happy expectation, he finished his glass of whisky, musing,

_"No – logic had had nothing to do with it… Something rather more important than that."_

And then there was the sound of another motor pulling up in front of the house, footfalls on the steps, and the door rattled open.

"Dad? I'm home!" The heavy clump of a bag being dropped; Foyle rose and met his smartly-uniformed son in the entry.

"Andrew! How was your journey?"

They embraced and the boy gave his father an extra squeeze,

"Fine. Happy Christmas! – Or rather, Happy Boxing Day, I suppose."

They wandered into the sitting room and Foyle stood with his hands deep in his pockets, giving the appearance of outward calm.

"…The train was full of chaps trying to get home… some boisterous, some pretty quiet… Is that a new aftershave? A bit flowery, isn't it? _Christ_ – look at this! Who gave you _'The Glenlivet'_?"

Andrew examined a few of the small parcels, then paused,

"_Er_… Dad? What on earth is your necktie doing on the Christmas tree?"

Foyle looked puzzled and stared at the tree where his tie had apparently landed, looked up at his son with feigned innocence, raised his eyebrows, and then broke into a broad smile.

Andrew tilted his head quizzically,

"Dad…?"

"Come and sit down, son. Got some news. D'you want a drink?"

The End.


End file.
